


The Rubber Garden

by Karin Yukimura (Karinpon), Sexsuna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Anal Sex, Castration, Clothes Fetish, Crossdressing, Eunuch, Gay, Group Sex, Incest, Japanese boys, Latex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rubber, Toys, Twincest, sex with aliens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karinpon/pseuds/Karin%20Yukimura, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keita Isshki has been offered an audition for the glossy crossdressing latex-clothing magazine called Rubber Garden Monthly. His overbearing brother does not like the idea, and some of his paranoid fears turn out to be correct. After his brother leaves, a strange boy arrives at their flat to warn of what happen in the bowels of that publication's office. He has no genitals left. Mahiro must save his beloved brother before it's too late!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rubber Garden

The Rubber Garden

 

**I**

 

Though the address the magazine had given was practically on the other side of Osaka, Mahiro knew that his queer little brother--littler by twelve minutes, for they were twins--could get there by train in less than half an hour. He started up from his seat at the table, still holding the rag entitled RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY, when his brother had rushed out the bathroom door in a towel on a course for his 'treasure chest' in the double-door closet they shared.

“ _Keita!_ ” Mahiro called out to him. “What would mother think?”

“Of what?” replied he, kneeling at the chest he'd pulled out of the closet.

“ _This!_ ” Mahiro shoved the magazine into the air overhead and waved it about noisily. “It's _porn!_ You can't do porn, Keita. Not this kind....”

RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY was a 90-page glossy publication full of photos of young men and flat-chested girls--or at least Mahiro thought they were girls--posing immodestly in all sorts of latex suits and dresses and fetish gear. Every five or so pages might feature a fashion-related news article, or a flowery editorial which Mahiro could not stand to read on account of its abounding archaisms of the Japanese language mixed with big foreign words; but mostly it was the photos, and he knew this was the sort of dishonourable immodesty his little brother wished to be paid to engage in.

“I won't have it!” Mahiro waved the rag more furiously while his brother picked out some women's clothing to wear to the interview.

“Come on,” said Keita without looking. “I love latex clothing. It is very expensive, however; and I have just read in my favourite publication on the subject that new models are being sought; eighteen to twenty-six years old, feminine males who love to put on latex clothing. Each outfit is specially made for the wearer; and for that reason, the model gets to keep what he models in addition to receiving payment. I have something for them, and they have something for me. I'm going to let them know.”

For a second Mahiro merely stared at his brother's back, hunched down before him with myriad long pink tendrils of wet hair draped over it. Then he said, “I can't stop you. But this publication is seedy, and no doubt are its staff as well! I don't want you to end up...,” he didn't let himself finish.

“Raped or worse?” said Keita, starting to giggle as he stood and turned.

"Something. You're very weak and effeminate, and--some might say-- _attractive...._ ”

Keita came up to Mahiro and wrapped his arms round him, a brotherly embrace. “I'm glad you're worried about me, Mahiro-kun, but you shouldn't be. Not so much. You're just like me, but your hair isn't dyed, and you pretend to be interested in sports. You should worry about yourself more.” At that, he kissed Mahiro on the cheek with the full wide lips they both possessed. Mahiro promptly peeled him off, face burning and crotch tingling in a way he didn't like.

“Just don't leave yourself alone with any greasy strange men for too long. Call me if anything goes awry. I'll go watch TV on the couch until I fall asleep there.”

“You do that. I need you out of here so I can take off my towel and get into some clothes anyway.”

“Don't wear anything too revealing either,” said Mahiro on his way out of their bedroom.

With Mahiro around, there was no need for a mother, Keita thought.

 

Alone now, Keita Isshiki plucked various garments out of his treasure chest and laid them on his bed. _What would be appropriate to wear to the interview?_ Latex was his first thought, but he did not own any. Something that would show off his body, then, would be the next best thing--a tight fit, so the interviewers would know how he'd look in their products before he got to try them on. He scanned what he had carefully.

Most of his outfits were colour variants of the school-girl uniform, which was far too loose-fitting for his purposes. There was a gothic lolita dress, which he picked up and turned over in his hands for seconds before deciding it was simply too modest. His swim-wear was on the bed, too; a black neoprene pretzel maillot, which he'd hoped he wouldn't have to resort to. He picked up the folded swimsuit, played with it in his hands. Nothing would be as effective, he thought; but what would be Mahiro's objections if he saw him stepping out in it?

The solution was for him not to see. Going back to the closet, he took off a hanger a long grey coat, which when worn would cover him from shoulders to knees. First letting his towel drop to the floor, and throwing the coat on the bed, he proceeded to step into the maillot, pulling the stretchy article up along his legs till the bottom snuggly fit his bum, and the rest over his flat belly, his breast... he was done when the straps, crossed at the back, rested one atop each shoulder.

The swimsuit felt too tight at the crotch. Of course, it was always thus; the fact was that the simple act of dressing aroused him, and in some cases made him hard as a rock down there. He glanced down at his bulge amusedly, then grabbed his coat and covered up everything. His boots would match the swimsuit's colour; he kept them under his bed in the original shoebox they had come in, and he wasn't sure if Mahiro had ever seen them. Kneeling at the side of his bed, he reached under and pulled out the box; opened it and unfolded the shiny black boots. Made of polyvinyl chloride, or PVC as it's called for short, the boots reached just over the knee, and their heels were five inches high, thick, and platform. High platform heels were his favourites. He sat on the bed and one at a time unzipped the shoes, squeezed his feet in, and jerked the zippers up to his inner thighs.

They were not hard to walk in since the heels were thick and the platforms served to preserve some balance. He wondered if Mahiro could hear their thumping against the maple hardwood. Now his maillot felt very tight.

 

When he came all dressed up and with his straight silky pink hair dried, brushed and tied in bunches, to cross the living room, he found Mahiro asleep on the couch with RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY splayed on top of him. The TV had not been turned on. There was a considerable bulge in the crotch of his jeans; Keita felt certain he was dreaming of the contents of the magazine. “I'm going now, Mahiro,” he spoke softly for the least chance of waking. Beside the front door was the house-key hung on a hook, which key he palmed as he opened the door.

Outside, in the hall, he closed and locked the door to their flat, ensuring Mahiro's safety against all manner of lurking criminals, except the ones that could pick locks. _That might come in handy_ , he thought, _if Mahiro should lock himself out by accident before I return!_ He passed other doors until he was on the landing.

Keita normally took the stairs down to the first floor, but that would be precarious in the heels he now wore, so he made straight for one of the lifts, and pressed the button to call it up. Soon, the doors parted for him, and he stepped into the bright, yellow-carpeted space beyond. When he turned as the doors closed, he noticed a blue-haired man curled in the corner beside them, covered in a dirty sheet, not moving nor speaking. _Was he a young homeless trying to sleep inconspicuously?_ Keita remembered reading something about increasing numbers of youths being kicked out of their parents' homes for not getting a job to help out--as if putting them in the streets would improve the situation for anyone.

Concerned thoughts dissipated when the first floor landing appearing before him. The exit was very near, and he took it without a glance back until he was outside the building: a fourteen-storey star-tower with three long wings, each containing from forty two up to one hundred and twelve homes, stretching from the structural core. It was part of the Takemidai Danchi, whose many impressive buildings he surveyed under the late afternoon sunlight as he reached and stepped along one of the pedestrian overpasses.

Eventually he'd come to Minami-senri station and gone through the turnstile without being looked at funny by other prospective passengers. Now he waited under the shelter on a platform for his train to arrive, idly scanning the balconies of the seven-storey yellow slab across the platforms and tracks from him.

 

No light shone through the windows of the flat when Mahiro awoke to silence and warm stagnant air. He looked in the direction of the door and saw that the key was gone. His brother had gone while he slept. Throwing his legs over the side of the couch, he sat there for a moment. The rag he'd perused for the third time as he'd fallen asleep lay at his feet, and there he left it when he started up and went to turn on the air conditioner.

When he came back to the living room to retrieve his mobile off the coffee table, he put the smutty rag in its place, then dialled Keita's number.

It rang.

“Mahiro?” came Keita's thin voice. “Did you lock yourself out?”

“It's nothing like that,” he contested. “Did you make it to the porn studio okay? How is it?”

“It's not a porn studio, firstly; and the atmosphere is very cosy. There are a few attractive young men here also waiting to be interviewed. I've seen the doctor, who is also editor in chief of the magazine, admit to his office two already. Not one has come out. Do you think they get to model right away?”

“You don't want to know what I think. Do you have the cops on speed dial?”

“And if I don't?”

Did he think Mahiro's fears were a joke? Did he not perceive how reminiscent was his attitude of that of the standard slasher film victim? “If you don't, I'll send them to that address the moment I suspect something is up!”

“Please don't. They'd probably lock us all up on suspicion of prostitution.”

Mahiro wasn't so sure there was anything wrong with that as his mind juggled some alternative potentialities. “If you're not back by noon tomorrow, I'll call or... or I'll come over myself!”

Now Keita's voice took on a jocular tone: “Come wearing your tightest clothes then; I think they'd take you.”

“Very funny! My limbs are too muscular, anyway.”

“Are not!”

“Not that I'd do it, whatever the case. I'll call again after midnight, to check on you.” Mahiro ended the call.

Hungry but too lethargic to fetch any food, he planted his rear back on the couch, found the remote sticking out of a cushion beside him, and with it turned on the television. There was a game show on. The host asked an absurd question, a riddle perhaps; a man standing on a platform, to which his feet were locked, answered incorrectly, and a hammer came suddenly from beneath him, striking his genitals. Mahiro usually found that sort of thing hilarious, but not tonight. He changed the channel.

Now it was the evening news hour. He turned off the TV and pulled his feet up onto the couch again. Impulsively, he reached for RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY, and soon was drowsily scanning the pin-ups as was his wont since Keita had subscribed and the issues started coming in the mail drop. How did those men fit everything in those tight, stretchy clothes without any embarrassing and unsightly bulges? He knew at least half the models were male, mostly from their faces--but they were also very tall and without any breasts. It wasn't all to do with the high heels and binding clothes.

As often happened when he was sleepy, the blood was leaving his head and going to his extremities. He replaced the magazine on the coffee table and peeled off his jeans. Now he could return to sleep with some measure of comfort.

 

**II**

 

 _Was he naked underneath the coat? A flasher?_ The thoughts of Haruka Ito revolved around this prospect as he looked upon his pink-haired peer in the waiting lobby of the RUBBER GARDEN STUDIOS building. The man didn't notice his stares, buried as he was in back-issues of the magazine. Haruka, in all his eighteen years, had never once dyed his natural light-brown hair, and now wondered if this fact would hurt his chances at a modelling career. He plucked a lock of the hair off his breast in agitation and began curling it about his fingers.

Suddenly opened the door beside the tinted window, which most people present were looking at. “Doctor” Tyazuke Takemizawa emerged again, without either of the young men who'd gone in before. He did not look old, but his big, long and crooked nose recalled popular depictions of witching old hags. His hair was long and brown, darker and straighter than Haruka's, with a blunt-cut fringe over the eyes; and he wore a black latex cat suit with high platform heels. “So far we have two new models,” he said. “And I like what I see out here. There's no need to worry about not getting the job; there are jobs for all of you boys! But formalities have to be endured, measurements taken, questions about any allergies asked....”

His gaze darted quickly round the room and affixed on Haruka. “You're next. Come.”

Haruka stared, taking a moment to shed the inertia that had overcome him in the warm, cotton-upholstered chair. The “doctor” came over and gently grasped his wrist. “Up! No time to waste. You need help?”

“Maybe I did.”

Now standing side by side, Mr. Takemizawa still with that same gentle grip on Haruka's wrist, they went on through the door.

 

 _That sure was a fat-arse who just went in!_ Keita thought. Was it true what the doctor had said about them all having the job? Maybe that one would fail some measurements. Oh, but what was he thinking? Latex could be cut to all sizes and shapes, and was quite stretchy.

There now remained only two men in the waiting room with him. One was a tall bastard with long, yellow hair, a few locks of which were tied up in a single, high bunch; he wore a tattered black sweatshirt and red pleated miniskirt with white knee-socks and a pair of red patent leather pumps with chunky high heels, and his somewhat masculine face was pale with eyes lined and lips painted black. The other fellow had a head of shoulder-length violet hair, and wore big round spectacles; his attire comprised a pair of blue jeans and a grey t-shirt. _He looks poorer than I_ , thought Keita.

He passed what seemed another hour drooling over the pin-ups in the back-issues of RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY which he'd found piled on some small tables in the waiting room: then the door opened. The doctor stepped out wearing a grin, and came immediately towards Keita. “It's your turn now,” he said, proffering his hand. Keita put down the magazine and took the doctor's wrist as he rose. “Eager, aren't we? I hope you've got something on under that coat--or maybe I don't. In any case, you're going to have to lose it in a moment,” he continued while he led Keita into the room.

It had the appearance of a small office, with but a desk and a chair next to the door; and the rest of the room, taken up by white screens, lamps and a camera. There was another door partially obstructed by a screen. “Welcome to the doctor's office!” said the doctor once he'd closed the door they entered by. _Was Dr. Takemizawa even a real doctor?_ Keita wondered, but didn't really care. “Now you ought to remove your coat so I can take some measurements and imagine how you will look in our clothing line.”

Keita removed his coat, saying as he did “I didn't own any clothes that... that would have permitted accurate measurements, or imaginings; so I came in this swimsuit. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course! It's very enticing how you've combined it with those boots.” The doctor suddenly tensed up, and moved himself behind his desk, sitting; then continued, “Let me search these drawers for the tape measure....”

“It's on top of your desk,” said Keita.

“Is it? Well nevertheless, I think I pulled a muscle. Do you know how to take your own measurements?”

“I do. I've taken them before, but lost a little weight since. Do you want me to take them for you here?”

“Yes, please do! And report them.”

Keita retrieved the tape measure, unravelled it, and began wrapping it around himself at all points of relevance, noting the measurements aloud as he went.

“Very good,” said the doctor. “I'll type them up and transmit them to our special in-house manufacturing department, who'll put something together for you forthwith.” He began tapping at the small grey keyboard on his desk. “You, what's your name?”

“Keita. Family name Isshiki.” Keita replaced the tape measure in a tangled mess on the desk.

“Normally we film new models once they are accepted, just a brief clip over there against the white screens; but you can go straight down the hall through that door; at the end, to your right, will be the recreation room where you will find the other models awaiting their clothing. Join them!”

“I have the job?”

“Isn't it obvious, Keita-chan? Go on now, I've got some filing to do.”

 

 _The boy looked so happy in his tight, black swimsuit, in those thigh-high boots..._ it had made Tyazuke Takemizawa's catsuit unbearably tight down there. Before allowing in the next model – and to regain some feeling of professionalism – he decided he'd rub one out real quick. It was fortunate that he'd been able to train _the things_ to cut and fashion the clothes to his specifications, sparing him a good deal of work; they worked fast, and of course, he didn't have to pay them anything.

His thumb and forefinger tugged the zipper at the crotch slowly along, so as not to make too recognisable a noise. Seconds later, his shameful meaty organ had leapt out like the young spawn bursting through the chest in _Alien_. He stroked it under his desk, thinking about all the delightful young men who'd come to him for jobs.

The latex which covered his hand chafed a bit, until he wet it with saliva; then it felt heavenly. Not for the first time, he seriously considered establishing a casting couch, rather than the quaint waiting room he had; but how unprofessional would that be? And it was superfluous: usually he'd manage to indulge in one or two of the models before they had to be sent off, anyway.

It was not long before the stringy spend decorated his glistening black hand like tinsel does a Yule tree. He ate it, as was his custom, and in a moment was able to tuck himself back in and zip up. He thought the next young man should be brought in forthwith, knowing as he did that none was likely the kind of _connoisseur_ who, walking into a room, would recognise the scent of fresh emissions in the air.

 

He's so bad at pinball, Haruka thought; when will he give up the machine? “Can you take a break the next time you lose all your balls?” he asked the orange-haired fellow he'd been watching. “I want to play.”

“Tough luck! I'm not losing this one, or the one after,” replied the man, whom he'd learned was called Michiro.

Haruka planted himself on the couch across the shag-carpeted room, beside a younger man whose long hair with blunt-cut fringe was a natural black. This man wore a sort of gothic lolita dress, sleeveless with white frills at the shoulders, and with a tight above-knee skirt. He also wore black nylons and perhaps the exact same boots that were worn by the pink-haired man; he was too busy watching the small TV set that lay before the couch to notice Haruka's staring.

Flashing on the TV screen were clips of young men donning exotic shiny clothes and feminine hairstyles having rough sex with each other, which took Haruka's focus off the man beside him; interspersed with these were shorter clips of some of them playing instruments. This was what they call ‘Visual Rock’, and Haruka knew of only one channel which would ever air it: SEX&ROCK TV, which required a subscription. The man on the couch with Haruka had flipped up the front of his own tight skirt to free his long and rigid member; and presently, he stroked it in a slow and idle manner while watching the strange music videos. Haruka was mildly disgusted, and wondered if people were allowed to do that here, but thought better of drawing anyone's attention to it. _How long would they all have to wait here before being allowed to work?_

Suddenly, Haruka felt a grip and pull upon one of his arms, then the other; it appeared that the Onanist sought to bring him into his private pleasures. A most unwelcome invitation, but he found himself unable to protest when the beautiful man hugged him tight and began to lick his face. The man whispered after a moment, “Won't you help me shoot? You're so cute--please touch me...”

Haruka said nothing, but merely reached down for the admittedly impressive organ and took a gentle hold of it, which act apparently was enough to send it into an ejaculating spasm as its owner moaned softly; his slime had gotten on Haruka's pink cotton minidress, clinging and quickly staining. Cynically, Haruka reminded himself of the change of clothes for which he'd come to this room to wait.

“I'm sorry!” said the man; Haruka assumed he was referring to the stains.

“It's all right. One of the reasons we all came here was for new clothes, right?”

“Verily! And I hope they are all quite flattering and unique.” The man was silent for a few seconds after having said this, then he added: “Do you want me to help you shoot?”

“I don't even know your name,” Haruka danced around the question. “Nor you mine...”

“My name is Mikazuki. Yours?”

“Haruka Ito,” he gave his complete name almost on reflex.

And all this was seemingly sufficient for Mikazuki to push Haruka's back to the cushion and hook thumbs under his skirt, lifting it up as he leaned in. As his new friend's tongue began coaxing his member out to a sizeable state, Haruka could not help but be amused at the whole unbelievable ordeal; he even giggled when he started to relax. His piece expanded in Mikazuki's pretty mouth, which was painted black.

Enjoying the earnest wet slavering on his dick, Haruka turned his head. He noticed the pink-haired man had come in, wearing a slick black one-piece swimsuit and really nice boots. Haruka could see the bulging outline of the man's penis in the front of the swimsuit, even from the distance of most of the room; he felt the strange urge to touch it, then he came in Mikazuki's mouth, which seemed to vacuum the sperms all away.

“Did you like it?” he asked when he had disgorged the member.

“It felt good,” responded Haruka. “I never had that happen to me before.”

“Never had your cock sucked?” Mikazuki smiled. “I'm glad to be your first. I like you, Haruka; I hope we can work in close proximity to each other.”

Haruka's face heated up; he was sure he looked sunburnt as he lay back under the light of dim incandescent bulbs. “Mikazuki,” he said, “fix my skirt.” And he retreated right there into the dark embrace of slumber.

 

**III**

 

The blue-haired man in the doorway appeared youthful and very scrawny; he wrapped himself in a filthy greenish sheet, and Mahiro still didn't know what to think of him. But he'd knocked, and woken Mahiro from a pleasant dream he now could not remember. “Who are you?” demanded the risen.

Of a sudden, the man leapt at him, knocking him on his back inside. The sheet had come off and the man's body was soft and supple, though unusually slender. “I have a warning for you. You subscribed to that magazine, didn't you? This residence was on the subscriber list,” the man whispered urgently.

“Who are you?” reiterated Mahiro, gasping but not really trying to throw the man off him.

“I am Sanousuke,” he spoke more audibly now. “I'm nineteen years old, and some people call me San for short. You can, too. But that's not important. I've been trying to stop people falling into the trap which I've fallen into, and you lived kind of close by, so I came here first.”

“What is this all about?” Mahiro was nervous, but willing to listen.

“There is a subscribers list for RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY; a special subscribers list--only those households with men of a certain age. Your age is twenty, is it not? You have been spied on, things have been learned about you, and you have been expected to apply for a modelling job with the magazine. I did the same.”

“No, you've got it wrong,” Mahiro pushed him off gently, increasingly interested in whatever conspiracy theory was related to the magazine. “My twin brother went to apply. I always thought there was something seedy about this publication!”

“You believe me?”

“Well, I don't know. What all is there to it? What did you experience?”

Sanousuke rocked off his knees, onto his nude bum, legs pressed close together. “When I got there, there were a few other men like me: young and slender, worried about appearance, especially hair; some even cross-dressed. If I opened the most recent issue of the magazine, I'd probably recognise some of them. They went farther than I did, and will never be heard from again.”

“You're rambling,” said Mahiro. “Tell me exactly what is horrible about this magazine--about this modelling place?”

“ _The dictatorship of the clothing_ ,” said San solemnly. Just when Mahiro was about to respond with smirking incredulity, the blue-haired man spread his legs.

Where should have been a penis and testes, was but a hairless pink scar. The man's whole body was hairless in fact, but for the stuff growing in profusion from his scalp; but the scar was all the more frightful for its baldness. Near the top of the scar was a tiny silver ring with a black plug in it, from which dangled a folded, thread-thin chain, and Mahiro guessed the purpose of this apparatus but refused to believe his eyes. A moment of silence followed the vulgar display; and he thought he'd begun to grasp the meaning of the man's cryptic words. “A penis just deforms the sort of skin-tight clothing that is shown in the magazine--like tits. So....”

“You understand. Our excesses were trimmed so the clothing would reflect the light more smoothly--or something like that. The man who writes in the magazine is not who runs the operation. He still has his penis, because he's old, and not suited for anything better than luring adequate victims and making the modifications.”

“We have to go get my brother!” Mahiro shouted. “Who is the sick person running this operation?!”

“They're not human. We had been brought deep underground after the surgeries, and those boys who were ahead of me were being strapped to each other to form an enormous structure... _like a piece of furniture._ That was when I determined to run away.”

Mahiro took some time to react; his eyes widened and he shuddered visibly. “They use them for furniture! _They're going to cut off Keita's dick and strap him to a pile of other men and use him as furniture!”_

Sanousuke nodded gravely. Mahiro could not help believing this man; he burned to leave at once, perhaps stopping only to grab his aluminium baseball bat; but at the same time he felt there would certainly be hazards he did not expect--whose nature he could not guess. Inhuman was what it was, and therefore he knew to take caution. “We need to contact the government,” said Mahiro sensibly.

“They won't believe us. What we need is... I don't know. Is there anything we can do? I only came to warn young men not to fall into the trap I fell into. I think it's too late for your brother.”

“ _No!_ ” Mahiro took San harshly by the upper arm and threw him on his side. A violent reaction he remembered not whence he'd acquired. “I'm sorry...” he began to apologise immediately. Sanousuke did not move from where he'd been thrown to the floor. “A-are you okay?” Mahiro crawled over with caution.

The blue-haired youth clutched Mahiro's arm suddenly, pulling himself up for a wet kiss which nearly penetrated Mahiro's lips.

Mahiro stood and turned away, spitting. “Don't do that, you freak!”

“I'm not a freak,” San pouted. “I'm a eunuch; your eunuch, and I'll help you find your brother in whatever way I can. I'm not interested in the others on the list now. My family hated me before I was like this, so I have nowhere else to stay but here.” He got to his feet, which act slightly intimidated Mahiro--for he stood a fair bit taller than Mahiro's one-hundred and sixty-eight centimetres. “You can do whatever you want to me, but please don't throw me out!”

He must be some kind of masochist, Mahiro thought; he was taking the loss of his genitals apparently in stride, even calling himself a eunuch... _Mahiro's eunuch_. Crazy! But he looked harmless enough, and must have known a lot that could potentially help him, wherefore Mahiro decided: “You can stay, but don't try to kiss me again. And put on some clothes! There are plenty back there,” he pointed towards the room he shared with Keita.

“I am cold,” said San, closing in on Mahiro as if for an embrace so that the latter tensed up and shut his eyes; but San walked on past him to the room. He came out a few minutes later, dressed in one of Keita's school-girl costumes with black glittering pleated miniskirt, which barely covered the top third of his pale thighs. “How do I look?” he asked.

Mahiro thought about how he felt, then about how he should feel, and said: “Like a lanky under-aged prostitute.”

“I've never seen a prostitute wearing cute clothes like these. Are they your brother's?”

“Obviously.” Mahiro felt his stomach rumbling then. He sought the digital display on the microwave oven which gave him 20:22 and decided that he had to eat something before any action could be undertaken. Would his guest appreciate pre-cooked strips of chicken? he wondered.

 

Keita sat upon one of the sofas in the room; from there he watched the activities of the cute men around him. He didn't dare approach anyone and attempt to start a conversation, because he throbbed between his legs and it was obvious; with great difficulty it was that he could keep from spilling out of his maillot. Pressing his knees tightly together, he merely watched, and waited. In a few minutes, he could see all of the men from the waiting room in this room. There was not much for them to do but wait, too; there was but one television set, a pinball machine, and a couple of oaken bookcases. Of course he liked to read, but he could not really get up and see what the shelves contained, indecent as it would be until his erection died down. Did others have the same problem?

He blushed profusely when the two men, one with yellow and one with violet hair, seated themselves at either side of him on the couch; he tried not to be conspicuous as he covered his crotch with is hands. The one with yellow hair was already staring at his lap when he said, “Hello, my name is Azuki. What's yours?”

“Keita,” was the response. He tensed up.

“I knew a boy named Keita in school. Or was it Kentarou? _Butarou_?... He was fat.”

Was this Azuki trying to be funny? Keita nodded lamely, not knowing how to reply, or if a reply was even called for. Suddenly the man brought his hand down on Keita's thigh, and started kneading. “You're only fat here,” said Azuki, grinning as he then slid his hand up along the side of the thigh. He reached Keita's bum, and still he kneaded.

“Get your hand off my bum,” Keita demanded, though less forcefully than was apparently necessary, for Azuki squeezed it then.

“Your hips are so soft!” said Azuki with awe--possibly affected. “Mine are all skin and bones. Do you want to see up close?”

“No!... I've got to go to the toilet!” said Keita, standing up suddenly.

The one door in the room opened. Tyazuke stepped in. “All right, everyone: it's time to get dressed,” he announced. “Follow me, all of you, down the hall to the changing room where you'll receive further instructions.”

Sighing relievedly, Keita walked a little faster than the others out into the hall. In something like a single file, they followed the doctor three doors down, and entered the fourth. Inside was a thin burgundy carpet, in the centre of which stood a pile of plastic vacuum-sealed packages each bearing a white rectangular label with a name on it. Lining the walls, were cubicles with swinging doors, a bit wider than those in a public lavatory. “Take a package with your name on it and get changing! Hurry up!” said Tyazuke. Keita heard someone behind him being smacked on the bum when that was said.

They approached the pile in an orderly manner to retrieve each his package, whereafter they spilled into unoccupied cubicles. Keita was glad at the bolt on the inside of his cubicle door, which he quickly secured. There was a mirror taking up the part of the wall which the cubicle closed around, and in this he quickly checked himself for any previously unnoticed weight gain. That harasser, Azuki, had sure got to him; but he was satisfied that the man had been speaking nonsense about his thighs and buttocks. When he began to peel off his swimsuit, he found it sticky with his sweat, and traces of another secretion. He looked himself over again in the mirror when he stood in the nude but for his high, black boots. _Let's unwrap our present now,_ he thought to himself, and unzipped his package.

The bright yellow costume that spilled out startled him at first. Once unravelled, it seemed to him like another sort of swimsuit; it was similar to the maillot he had just taken off, except for the colour and that it was made of latex; not to mention, there was a big egg-shaped gap in the lower back part, and a smaller inverted one on the upper chest part; and most enchanting of all, were the inch-long black frills—latex as well—which lined the holes he now thrust his legs through with excitement indicated by his flopping erect penis. He held the organ parallel with his belly in order to get it in the outfit. The open shoulders were also lined with frills; and the outsides of the gaps, he noticed, each with a thin lip of black dye. His heart raced as he ran his fingertips along the shiny material stretched over him— _but was that all?_

Squatting, he reached a hand greedily in the bag, which had been left on the floor. No, he was delighted to find, that hadn't been all! He plucked out a pair of yellow stockings, each with the same black frills at their tops, and black garters swinging from them: he knew exactly what to do with these; and with the black frilly elbow-length gloves that came out after them. And soon, he was zipping his boots back up, having had to remove them in order to step inside the stockings. He glanced at himself in the mirror one last time before leaving the changing room, and hoped that the fat banana reaching to his navel from between his legs would not be taken note of or particularly cared for. It was impossible to stay down in such arousing attire.

He'd thought it clever to stuff his removed clothing inside the plastic bag that his new things had come in, though he could only zip it up and not vacuum-seal it as it had been when he got it. The sight that greeted him when he left the changing room did not diminish his excitement one bit. Although he really hated Azuki, he thought the wretch looked quite sexy in what he now wore: a red catsuit, beneath the legs of which were the bottoms of some very high platform heels, and over which he wore a black corset; all latex, except for the laces. What's more: he'd let his hair down.

The bespectacled man with purple hair--which didn't even extend far past his jaw-line, and so was not very impressive--wore: a slimming white dress which barely covered his chest beneath his armpits, and from which two straps extended and crossed to go over the shoulders, connecting to the back in order to hold up the whole thing; it featured a very short pleated skirt at the bottom, and beneath that stretched crimson garters which clipped to the tops of thigh-high violet stockings, which disappeared into white boots with the same sort of heels as Keita's, but which did not quite reach the knees. The boots were dual-coloured, the heels and platforms being black.

The fat-arse wore something similar, but pink instead of white, and the black-haired one who clung to him wore another sort of maillot, all a deep violet colour with a black, pleated half-skirt--that is to say, it covered only his tailbone and buttocks and part of the hips. Keita took note of his purple banana, which was engorged fully as much as his own. The black-haired one's boots were thigh-high and black, and with the same sort of heels that Keita wore--very popular, it appeared. The one with orange hair who had hogged the pinball machine was nowhere to be found, and Keita supposed he remained in his cubicle, and that his outfit, like everyone's, would be made entirely of latex.

Dr. Takemizawa was still here, and sporting quite the large banana in his catsuit, which sight made Keita feel in such _like_ company that he almost reached down to stroke himself, but resisted the urge--no one else was touching himself, after all. The doctor beamed as he surveyed the room with all its strikingly clothed young men. “All right,” he said, “who's missing? Michiro?”

Apparently not expecting a reply, he went over to the one occupied cubicle and pulled at the door, but it was locked. So he knocked. “Michiro, are you having trouble? Does something not fit?”

There came no reply; but a regular smacking sound that had been emanating from the stall stopped as soon as it was definitely noticed by everyone's enquiring ears. Tyazuke motioned for everyone to maintain silence; then he suddenly crouched and slid his whole body, feet first, through the gap under the door.

There was a frightened yelp, presumably from Michiro, then a soft exchange of words Keita couldn't decipher. Minutes elapsed, and some of the men outside, Keita included, had to sit on the floor to wait. The smacking sounds had resumed, and the sound of something else, which the black-haired one and Azuki both giggled at, as if they knew something. Keita allowed himself only an idea, but this idea probably agreed with them. At last, the door opened, and the doctor stepped out with a broader grin; Michiro, with long, orange hair done up in lank bunches flowing over the shoulders, and leaving just enough fringe to frame the round, big-toothed face, trailed behind wearily.

His outfit was perhaps the most impressive: at its nucleus a black maillot, but with covered shoulders and high collar; a big diamond gap cut over the smooth breast; and from the back of each side of the waist, sprouted long, pleated white “wings” which reached the sides of his knees; which in turn were covered with the extended “tongues” of some laced, under-knee boots, otherwise identical to Keita's; the knees were uncovered at the back except by a thin strip of latex to hold up the top of the “tongue” of the same material. He also wore elbow-length black gloves with great long frills, also white, loosely enfolding the upper arms.

“I hope all of you have put your old clothes—at least those which didn't go with your outfits—in the packages the new had come in,” said the doctor, “for they are to be collected, and stashed in a bin near the back exit until your work here is done.”

So, Keita thought, it wasn't an original idea; but it was clever! Two of the others were busy gathering their old clothes, when the purple-haired man approached Keita. “Hello,” said he, “my name is Genki. I'm sorry, Keita, for my friend's harassment of you on the couch whilst I sat idly by. Azuki wanted to say he's sorry, too, but he's occupied—and shy, though you wouldn't believe it.”

“His hands were the opposite of shy,” Keita retorted, “but why are you telling me this, anyway?”

“We want to be friends with you,” said Genki immediately. “We're all headed to the studio now; I hope we'll get the chance there.”

Indeed, Dr. Takemizawa was heading another procession into the hall; and Keita, as he joined it, was glad it meant he didn't have to respond then and there to Genki's strange words. Chance to be friends?...

 

**IV**

 

The time was nearly 21:00 and Mahiro had retrieved two aluminium baseball bats from the closet, one of which he proffered to Sanousuke. “This is absolutely the best we can do for weapons,” he said. “Will it be enough?”

San, taking the bat and turning it over in both hands, said “Absolutely not. It's a suicide mission even if we had swords or guns. We are only two...”

“It's only in case there is resistance from the staff,” interjected Mahiro. “We're not making war on the magazine: I just want to bring Keita back, and you need to come with me to convince him of what horrors await.”

“How will I do that? Like this?...” San lifted the front of his skirt, swaying his hips just enough to swing the tiny silver chain, which must have tickled his scar and brought the smile that came then.

“No... underwear?... But yes, that will definitely strengthen our case. I hope you know how to swing a bat, just in case we need to.” Mahiro stepped over to his couch and started bashing the cushions with his shiny blunt weapon.

“Someone who lives in a cave knows how to do that....”

Mahiro let a breathless little laugh. “Well, let's go. Keita has the key to this flat, but it would be faithless to leave the door unlocked.... Sure, who'd want to burgle a dingy little flat like this, out of all the ones there are to burgle in this building? But if I lock us out, we can only come back once we've rescued Keita: and that is as it should be.”

“What are you babbling about? I don't follow...”

“Never mind. Oh, I almost forgot!” Mahiro collected the issue of RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY from atop the coffee table. “You've probably got a good sense of direction, but I'd feel more comfortable with the address in hand.”

So with the rag in one hand and the bat in the other, Mahiro exited his flat. San followed and passed some distance down the hall before Mahiro, sighing, locked and shut his door; then he caught up. “We'll need to take a train,” said Mahiro grimly, for he was not sure... now he was: “No, we'll need to walk. I left all of my money in the flat, which I locked.” He wanted to punch himself.

“You don't have the key? Why did you lock the door then...?”

“Weren't you listening?! Never mind. You know the shortest ways on foot?”

“I know some ways.”

“Short-cuts?”

“I don't know. They are how I got here on foot, so maybe.”

“No need to panic then,” said Mahiro and tried to control his own breathing.

 

Outside the EMILYMART, three teenage girls who had been smoking cigarettes by a street-light, probably unbeknownst to their parents, each found her hair matted with blood. Mahiro crouched in the bushes and watched, and listened: there wasn't any screaming, maybe a yelp or two for a split second. San sure knew how to swing a baseball bat. When the girls were an unconscious pile, San reached in and deftly extracted their money. It wasn't much, but it was enough; and Mahiro thought the ends justified the means, even though he elected not to participate in the brutal means. Was this how San made his way to the flat in the first place?

“I've got what we need. We should run some of the way from here!” said Sanousuke, pulling Mahiro out the bushes. The running they did was actually a bit of backtracking, so they could take a night-service from the Minami-senri station.

 

The studio was like nothing Haruka had ever seen, resembling a studio only in the few square metres cut out of one corner of the pink plush carpet, which spread over a very spacious oblong room. It must have been below ground level, to be so big; Haruka sort of remembered the corridors sloping at two or three points along the way here. On the white corner were focused one heavy-looking camera, its tripod resting on a wooden board with wheels nestled in the carpet; and three adjustable floor-lamps, not presently on. The great carpeted area bore a plethora of brightly coloured pieces of plastic or rubber furniture, much of it inflatable—like the white mattress.

The furniture pieces were in no sensible arrangement; and a few of them, like the air-filled rocking horse and the couch, were occupied by what appeared to be fat men cloaked from head to toe in black cloth. Tyazuke must have noticed Haruka, or someone else, staring, for he said after a moment “These men are our general technicians; they're a bit eccentric, but don't pay any attention to them. Come, let's begin the photo-shoots.” He motioned for everyone to follow him to the white corner. When they were all huddled there, he started to disperse them. “One at a time, please!”

Only Mikazuki remained, the so-called doctor holding him in place by the shoulders, whispering something in his ear. Then Tyazuke said “Mika-chan here is up first. I want each and every one of you to let loose come your turn; any embarrassing bulges will be airbrushed out of the final product.” When he said that, Haruka could have sworn to have seen his fingers brush the elongated mound that reached up the front of Mikazuki's maillot from between his thighs, but said nothing. “Pose!” finished Tyazuke, stepping off the white space and proceeding to switch on the lamps and man the camera.

The first thing Mikazuki did was reach behind himself with both arms, holding the right by the elbow with the left hand, sticking out his chest and standing with one foot more than a step in front of the other. Tyazuke snapped a shot, wheeled the camera round for another angle, and snapped a second, then held his fist out with thumb stretched towards the ceiling, whereupon the model changed position. Now he'd lowered to hands and knees, bending his elbows so that his rear would be raised to the camera. “Oh, excellent,” muttered Tyazuke between two subsequent shots.

This was typical of the sort of photos in the magazine, Haruka knew; and he'd prepared mentally, even decided on some modest bodily contortions of his own to do before the camera, but he was not looking forward to the fast-approaching time he'd have to actually step into the white space and... perform. His roundness made him a bit self-conscious; but he _had_ passed the interview, so what was there to fear?

“Now you go in the shot, Genki,” said Tyazuke; “you will pose for a few photos with Mikazuki before having the camera all to yourself.”

Genki stepped forth and proceeded to grope Mikazuki; they engaged in all sorts of erotic poses before Mikazuki left him alone and came back to Haruka's side. “You have to do something exciting,” he mumbled apologetically. Haruka was less upset than aroused.

“Keita, you are next,” said the rubber-clad camera-man who called himself doctor. The pretty pink-haired man with a mostly yellow, and very enticing, outfit stepped onto the white space. He stood there for a moment, as if in a trance—perhaps experiencing something like stage-fright; then he started touching himself, stroking the long bump in the front of his maillot and moving his hips seductively with lips parted. Was he intoxicated? It couldn't have been with drink; Haruka felt it too, and believed that the colourful assortment of young men in latex attire, gathered together as they were, could not help but induce a subtly ecstatic state of mind.

Apparently loving the masturbatory display, and snapping many pictures from various angles, Tyazuke after a moment said “Go join him, Haruka; I can see you want to.” And this was true; and Haruka did not hesitate to step into the frame with Keita, immediately tilting his head up to kiss him on the lips--for he was shorter than him--whilst wrapping an arm around his petite waist. The proceeding shots bordered on pornographic, with the two heavily petting each other, and even rubbing the bulges in the fronts of their outfits together till Haruka was on the verge of orgasm. “Beautiful!” said Tyazuke. “But we ought to move on to the solo shots.”

Reluctantly, Haruka let go the other; and, finding it difficult to remember the poses he'd planned to do by himself, he invented some as he went, which were minor variations on those of Mikazuki and Genki. The camera ate it up indiscriminately. “Now it is Michiro's turn,” said Tyazuke, and waved his forearm to and fro in a motion to suggest swapping. And the one with a head of brilliant orange hair came in Haruka's stead.

Upon returning to the side of Mikazuki, whose face was familiar and friendly to him, Haruka experienced some playful groping, and did not hesitate to reply in kind. The two made their way to the rubber furniture, having a seat on the air-filled white bed, which was well out of the way of those cloaked technicians. As he sat, Haruka noticed something he hadn't before: a massive garage door at one end of the room with red graffiti on it. He was about to comment on this when Mikazuki pushed him down and made him forget all about it.

 

It was not long once Keita had espied the two on the mattress before he decided to butt in; he wanted to be a part of their fun. The pudgy one, Haruka, had pulled aside the bottom of his maillot, letting drop an impressive piece of equipment which he was rubbing along where Mikazuki's purple maillot divided his buttocks. The intrusion of Keita with his own organ ready was not ill received; Mikazuki assented with welcoming mouth. Between the two others, the man with long black hair lay on elbows and knees and took one member in each terminus, moaning through his nose.

It mattered not to Keita, nor seemingly to any of them, if the whole room watched. The very air was arousing to breath--perhaps from the fragrance of rubber, which abounded--and Keita had never wanted to fuck so bad in his life. Mikazuki's tongue and lips were so skilful that Keita hardly had to move over the few minutes it took him to come; by then Haruka was still at Mikazuki's arse, pounding with increasing ferocity.

And none of them could have been sure how much time had elapsed when Azuki and Genki approached, the former with the crotch of his red catsuit already unzipped. “Now might be the only chance we get,” said Azuki, kneeling on the mattress and wrapping his arms around Haruka from behind. At that instant, Haruka let a little cry, as if startled, but the expression on Mikazuki's face made it evident he had spent at last. By all appearances aware of this, the newcomer behind him pulled him off, giggling at the sight of still drivelling seed.

“Don't...” Haruka protested, but he did not struggle at all as Azuki pulled out his own sizeable prick and began to prod his rear with it; and Genki came to his side and grabbed his face to steal a long wet kiss. Too curious to interfere, Keita merely pulled Mikazuki on top of himself; Mikazuki's penis was rigid with life and its possessor knew just what to do with it. As Keita lay on his back, legs lifted in the air, letting his arsehole expand to accommodate Mikazuki, he turned his head to derive further enjoyment from watching the others.

One of the technicians was watching, too. The creepy cloaked man had moved close, and sat on all fours as would a dog awaiting a command, which was an only slightly awkward posture for a man. Let him watch, Keita thought; but Haruka's tears began to run, and no one could be sure if it was due to the sight of the man so near, or the sensual treatment he was receiving from Azuki and Genki. Keita could no longer see his face when Azuki's bum got in the way and started moving back and forth.

The first technician was joined by a second, sitting in the same strange manner; the second did not sit long before crawling towards Mikazuki's back. Did he want to join in the fun, too? He reached out, and it took till Mikazuki yelped with surprise for Keita to realise that his big black monstrous hand was black only because it was coated in latex; but it still was unsettlingly large, its length from wrist to fingertips able to entirely cover both of Mikazuki's buttocks; and there was the width....

“It's cold...” complained Mikazuki, but was not long in returning to fucking Keita's arse; when he grimaced and whined Keita guessed that the technician had squeezed one of those giant fingers into him. The other hulking freak was harassing Genki now, thrusting a finger between his thighs and pinching his waist. Perhaps this was part of their pay, Keita thought; to get to molest the models. Tyazuke certainly did not seem concerned: in fact, the doctor was out, or at least Keita's brief scanning of the room could not locate him.

Elsewhere in the room, similar scenes played out; those odd crawling cloaked men with latex gloves groping and fondling the boys: none was spared this handling. Even Keita was got to eventually, the one who played with Mikazuki turning on him when Mikazuki had climaxed; the slimy coating Mikazuki had left in his interior facilitated the entry of the odd hulk's massive finger, which really was bigger than most cocks present. When it was half in, Keita nearly lost control of his bladder; but he tried to relax, for fear lest he frustrate the menacing molesters. Everyone else must have felt the same fear, for there was not a protest even from those who found themselves sat upon. The technicians must have been lighter than they looked.

 

Deep in the earth beneath the studio of RUBBER GARDEN MONTHLY lay dark and secret the terran encampment of the Outdwellers. They'd announced their arrival to Tyazuke in a dream seven years prior; they'd placed on his bony shoulders an intergalactic peace mission and provided him with all resources and hands necessary to accomplish it. Till that point, Tyazuke had been a mere designer of latex clothing; and it was this that must have attracted them to him: they wanted to be fitted.

He'd had to secure an old restaurant building and permission to make additions; then the first five workers appeared inside, as if from nowhere. Their forms were abominable and made no sense; but they were malleable, and he was able to squeeze them in some latex bodysuits so that they could go about their business by the light of day. They multiplied steadily, and he was kept busy making clothing for them, barely finding time to eat or do some of the part-time modelling whose cheques allowed him to eat.

Most of the construction had gone on underground. It was far underground, in the encampment, where he met the Ambassador, whose immense twisted bulk forbade it fitting into any man-made outfit. He felt in danger of fainting at even a partial sight, but an Ambassador was very important and Tyazuke was obliged to show whatever respect he could as he shuffled and stared at his own feet. Fortunately, he did not have to look in order to listen; and on their first appointment, the Ambassador had given him a funny task: to lure supple young latex-clad men to it.

It was easy enough at first, and it only got easier once he established the magazine. Some time had gone by before he saw what was done to the boys before they were taken beyond the border never to be seen again. It had made him hard, the sight of those shiny, colourful and obscene pieces of giant furniture, constructed of ingeniously contorted beautiful human bodies. It felt less like intergalactic trade than it felt like burnt offerings to a cruel god. The Ambassador started requesting modifications to make the boys easier to work with... heinous acts, which nonetheless Tyazuke had carried out for the sake of appeasing the monstrous aliens.

But he got off on it all. He wallowed in guilt, all the while being sexually excited beyond description. It was sad to condemn pretty and tasteful young men to such fates—but, Tyazuke told himself, there was no shortage of such men in Japan. And he knew he was not one of them--at least not young nor very pretty—and his jealousy softened the guilt somewhat. Still, he'd much rather have them for himself to abuse, locked up in some erotic dungeon, than give them away to the Outdwellers for, as far as he could tell, nothing in return. He was afraid to ask for something. But he did take, sampling as much of the product as he could before modification and shipment.

Now he met the Ambassador again, down below. The thing was getting impatient. It always got impatient; but, he told it, “Perfection cannot be rushed,” to which it had replied that his part to play was small and should not take so long as it does. The monster irritated him, and he hoped that it could not read his mind as easily as it could put things in it. “Things are just about to speed up, Ambassador. In this world, they say 'patience is a virtue'; but I won't be so bold as to request that from you. It is merely something to help you understand our ways.”

From inside its mass came a curious prolonged rumbling sound. Was it laughing? Or was it upset? “If I may be excused,” Tyazuke said, “the materials will be delivered very soon, and I must make them ready.” The rumbling began to diminish as Tyazuke turned and plodded up the rugged slope which served as a staircase.

 

They located the back door in a rubbish-strewn alleyway. It was unlocked. The front probably had been unlocked as well, but Mahiro and San both agreed on the superior cleverness of taking the back. “It's really dark in here,” Mahiro commented upon entering. “Not even the moonlight penetrates.”

“You locked your torch in with your money?”

Mahiro didn't think that deserved a response. “Hey,” he started instead, “this isn't right. Keita can't be here if it's dark. Why are there no lights on?”

“They are underground. It's a winding downward path to where he is, if he is not beyond help. I remember it vaguely. Take my hand.”

“You can see in the dark?”

“No, stupid. Don't be sarcastic in a den of lions. We'll use the aluminium bats as feelers; you drag yours to your side whilst mine sounds the darkness before us. We'll make a lot of noise, for sure; but at least we'll have our weapons ready if anything comes to get us.”

It was a silly idea, Mahiro thought; but it was better than no idea, which was what he had to offer. He grabbed Sanousuke's free hand; it was soft and radiated an intense heat of life, but it was also slippery with sweat. Nervous sweat.

They made their way through the pitch blackness, scraping and tapping their surroundings with the bats, which worked like a sort of echolocation. San led them through one door, then another; and here, in an interminable winding corridor, they met fluorescent light. “It should be safe to run now,” San said, letting go Mahiro's hand; and they ran.

They were coming around a soft, slightly sloping bend in the hall when they saw it, and San froze up and took Mahiro roughly by the arm. It was merely a bulky individual oddly dressed in a loose brown garment from head to toe; but he looked menacing, the way he was crouching before one of the doors; like a massive guard dog, fortunately seeming oblivious to their presence, for now. “Who is that guy?” Mahiro whispered.

“It's not a guy,” San replied. “It's... one of those things who make the furniture.”

“The furniture?” Mahiro started, but then remembered. “He's blocking the way to Keita, isn't he? We'll handle him, whatever he is, the same way you handled those delinquents outside the convenience store.”

“They were teenage girls...”

“What does it matter? You go through the same motions to bash anyone. Come on!... Fine, I will lead the attack.” A major concession on Mahiro's part, all for the sake of his brother. He charged, keeping his steps as light as possible and close to the wall that the thing had its back towards. Closing in, bat lifted high, he brought it down with the power of all his muscles in concert, squarely on the unmoving target's stooped shoulders.

It was like striking a rubbery boulder of clay; there was little sound, and when he pulled the bat away, he saw it had left an indentation in the cloth. The freak stood up, making a sound like a drowning man, perhaps an expression of anger. That instant Mahiro felt as though he'd made the biggest mistake of his life, and probably the last—but San was not long in coming to his aid, making a dent in the fat black arm that had thrust out of the cloak towards his neck. The limb was stayed long enough for Mahiro to get out of the way and deliver a subsequent strike to the wrist.

But despite these blows, which would cripple a human, the thing was more animated than ever! Even being slow, it moved its massive form with a certain fluidity and killer intent. One of its paddle-like paws took San's leg and held him upside-down, letting gravity flip his skirt and expose his pink scar and chain. The sight was distracting, but still Mahiro managed to strike the thing's shoulder repeatedly with all his might; and soon it dropped San on the floor. On his knees now, he swung at the thing's knee caps, or what appeared to be such, and it stumbled, threatening to fall, wherefore he leapt out of the way.

It quickly regained its balance, however. Mahiro dodged its arm and made sure, as he did, to deliver a quick blow to its other knee. It trembled. Through trial and error, they'd found a possible weakness; San recognised it, too, and both concentrated their subsequent attacks on the lower body. When he could, Mahiro reached out and tugged at the hem of the cloak, expanding a tear that was already present somewhere thereon, until the thing slipped out of it almost on its own. Underneath, the thing was a misshapen, glistening black giant; a rubber man.

San managed to bury his bat in the rock-shaped head, which brought the giant to wobble before Mahiro struck its knee again. It collapsed. Feeling that he could allow himself no respite till he heard bones crunch, Mahiro bashed its head between his aluminium and the crimson carpet of the hall, unrelenting. San had moved down to its legs, trying to disable it further. The head was flattening; losing shape, if shape it could be said to have had in the first place. The giant twitched spasmodically beneath their pummelling.

After a few minutes of this Mahiro grew tired. The twitching continued, but had slowed. “San,” he said, catching his breath. “This is a waste of time. We can't kill it, can we?”

“I don't know how,” replied the other, stopping. “Do you think it can still get up and chase us?”

“No, I seriously doubt it. Let's go on before it's too late.” In his mind Mahiro cursed himself for not having given up on the monster as soon as it had fallen. San stepped over the heaps of dung wrapped in latex that were the giant's legs, and opened the door.

The sight of the room, full as it was with strange colourful furniture and toys and young androgynous men, was a bit of a shock to Mahiro. He knew Keita must be among them. “Keita!” he called, and immediately became aware of the numerous vari-sized replicas of the creature in the hall who were molesting the men. “Shit,” he muttered to San, “we can't fight with these. We have to find Keita and run out of here with him. His hair is long and pink... I don't know what he's wearing. Do you see...?”

“N-no... but that must mean he's gone down....”

“What do you mean, 'down'?”

Rather than answering, San walked up to one of the exotically dressed young men, who was on hands and knees and having his exposed flesh pinched and pulled by one of the things, which didn't take any perceivable note of San. “Did they call Keita away?” he asked the poor boy. Recognition crept onto his agonised face and he nodded, squealing either in the affirmative or because of the torture.

“Where?!” shouted Mahiro.

“I'll show you where,” replied San; then, to the boy he said “Things could be a lot worse. We're going to try and get Keita, then we'll do what we can to help everyone escape.”

Coming up to Mahiro and taking him by the arm, San hurriedly led him to a graffiti-marked garage door at the end of the room. “Here. Let's see if we can dig our fingers under and lift it; that's out only hope.”

That wasn't exactly promising. A sudden flood of rage and despair brought Mahiro to swing his bat at the door, startling San. But he was not long in joining, swinging hard and hitting low. They focused on the same spot, and soon there was a dent, and with it a slight gap between the door and the carpet. Now Mahiro wasn't so sure if his outburst was impulsive or planned, it had served them so well. “Hurry and help me lift this!” San yelled, with a brief glance behind them, which Mahiro instinctively followed. He saw now: some of the rubber men were coming towards them.

 

The banging had scared Keita. It had visibly unsettled the doctor, too, but neither of them mentioned it. They were heading down to the solo studio to do a special shoot, Keita had been told. He fully expected to have to bare it all, but he didn't care now. The way down sure was dark and clammy though; he hoped they'd soon meet that door which opened onto the well-lit little studio. The poorly crafted stairs were not nice to him in his heels, and more than once Tyazuke had to help him not to fall; Tyazuke's ankles must have been made of steel.

“We're almost there,” said the doctor, with his hands still gripping Keita's waist from the last stumble.

And he spoke the truth; Keita had nearly walked into the door when Tyazuke reached past him and turned the handle. The overhead lights beyond illumined what appeared more like an operating room than a studio. There were two of the technicians in with them, and Tyazuke pushed Keita in before him and shut the door; locked it.

“Why are they here?” Keita demanded. “And why lock the door?”

“I'm sorry...” was all Tyazuke said; and Keita found himself gripped by four massive, rubbery hands. His struggle was futile; and realising this, he let out the shrillest and most powerful scream he could muster before one of those hands stopped his mouth. Someone _had_ to have heard him... but what could anyone do? Tyazuke was slipping into a white smock. The glint of one of several sharp instruments arranged on a counter off to the side caught Keita's eye, and he whimpered.

 

**V**

 

At least one of the things had managed to squeeze under the metal door to pursue them. Mahiro was intent on ignoring it, especially after hearing that scream... the same sort of sound Keita had made years back when a big, friendly dog had snuck up on him. It meant he was alive; but why wouldn't he be? It also could have meant the mutilation had begun, or even finished! In the mad dash down the rugged slope Mahiro did not see the door before he hit his nose on it. Recovering, he tried to open it. Locked, of course.

San came up to his side. “It's not reënforced steel or anything,” he said, running a finger along its surface. Mahiro was already swinging. Under their combined strength the door splintered, parts of it gave; and Mahiro saw.

Keita was being held down by two of the rubber men; his yellow swimsuit-like outfit was pulled aside to reveal his cock and balls. A middle-aged man with long hair, wearing a black catsuit and a white smock, brandished a scalpel. When he saw Mahiro's face, he dropped it, then bent to pick it back up. Mahiro already had an arm through the hole, and was pushing the inside handle down; the door was opening, all too fast for the would-be surgeon, who took a staggering blow from Sanousuke's bat in the arm, which Mahiro followed up with a crippling one to the knee.

“Don't hit me any more!” the man cried. “I concede. And I wouldn't have done any of this if—”

San gave him another knock with the bat and lifted his skirt. “Remember me?”

“You're the one who got away... Sanousuke with the blue hair.”

“It's a shame I didn't get away before you did this to me. If I still had the equipment, I'd rape you to death! But perhaps I could improvise with what I do have...” He wrapped his free hand around the top of the bat and stroked it suggestively.

“San!” Mahiro called. He was being overpowered by the two monsters that had been holding down Keita; being bent into submission, his weapon slipping from numb fingers. Keita had slipped away, however, and retrieved something from the counter with which he came to Mahiro's aid at the same time San came with his bat. As San beat one of the things out of shape, Keita slashed the constricting arm of the other; the latex shred, and out poured some viscous golden ichor--like honey, but thicker. There were chunks in the stuff... marbles?

Keita kept slashing away with what Mahiro now recognised as a box cutter—the mad doctor's back-up scalpel. The arm deflated, and San had immobilised the other form enough for Mahiro to get away and join in the attack. For a moment he wondered what had become of the other such creatures who'd followed him and San through the garage door; had they turned back to resume torturing those soft young men?

“We've got Keita,” San said, “let's get out of here quickly.”

The man on the floor cried “Wait!” as they started to leave out the ruined door. “Don't you want to know why I did this?”

“Because you're a sick pervert?” Mahiro thought his surmise the self-evident truth.

“Even if I was, that alone wouldn't bring me to mutilate all these beautiful young men. No, there is an _alien_ element. Can't you see?” the man pointed at the crawling mass of yellow jelly on the floor. “It's kind of cute, compared to its Ambassador. It's the Ambassador, underneath us, who wanted the bloody modifications—who wanted the boys in the first place. Intergalactic peace could have been at stake, I thought...”

“There's no reason to doubt what he says now,” San said. “But if intergalactic peace means cutting up men and twisting them into big, breathing pieces of furniture, perhaps antagonisms would be more pleasant.”

“Yes... I might have thought of that if I didn't, on some level, enjoy it all. Please, see what you can do to help the others escape. The magazine is officially discontinued.”

They left him to wallow in apparent self-pity. Quitting the room and ascending the slope, Mahiro, San, and Keita soon encountered a young man in purple fetish dress with long, black hair. “Mikazuki,” said Keita, “We need to get out of this place. What has happened in the studio?”

“It's hard to explain. Come and see.”

Following him back through the gap in the metal door, they beheld a scene different from, but equally strange to, what they had last in the room seen. Some of the boys were still being molested by the rubber men, but no longer in such obvious pain; others, they had seemed to turn the situation on its head. The blonde in a red catsuit, for example, had unzipped his crotch and was thrusting his member into a tear made in one of the bodysuits; he seemed close to climaxing, and he wasn't the only one.

“An orgy...” said San. “An interspecies orgy!... Disgusting!”

“Well we can't just leave them,” Mahiro said. “Can we? What if it's... a trick?”

“They're still waiting on Tyazuke. They got bored, I think.” San looked at his feet. “I'm wearing your clothes, Keita. I hope you don't mind.”

“No, but they are small on you,” was the reply.

“I guess you don't have to see my scar now, to be convinced to leave. You almost ended up like me.” San lifted his skirt briefly. “I've got to piss.” He disappeared under the door again, presumably to take care of that.

The blonde in red showed orgasm on his face; his grip on the rubber man tightened and he moaned. And as he retrieved his organ from the rip, the damnedest thing happened. The bodysuit slipped out of his hands, like an air mattress suddenly deflating.

“Azuki!” yelled Keita, running up to him. “What did you do to it?”

“I-I just... came. It felt wonderfully squishy in there. Did I fuck it to death?”

Returning, and seeing the flat bodysuit and young man with his drivelling cock out, San said “The scientific way to find out is to try and reproduce the results. Tell the others to make holes and fuck them. When we're all together, we don't need to be anywhere fast; do we, Mahiro-chan?”

He supposed not. But he wasn't going to stick his dick in there. “I'm not doing it, and Keita's not either. Let's just drag them out of here.”

“We can do that,” San said with a smirk on his wide lips. “It will probably make me jealous to see much more fucking anyway. My first time was here, with one of the other models... my first and my last.”

 

They had gotten everyone, except the doctor, out into the back alley when Keita remembered that his swimsuit was still somewhere inside the building. He wasn't going back to look for it though; the latex-clad creatures from space would be waiting for him. The things were probably crawling in pursuit this very moment. “What are we going to do about this place?” he asked no one in particular.

“We're not going to be arrested for arson,” replied Mahiro, guessing one of the things on Keita's mind. “I think we should all just go home and lock our doors. They aren't fast. They don't even know where we live. Keita, do you still have the flat-key on you?”

He ran his hands over himself, over his bare skin, the arousing latex outfit... no key: it was in his coat, in the doctor's office. “The key is inside. I know where it is...”

“Tell me, and I'll go get it,” Mahiro said.

“In the first room after the waiting lobby, in my coat.”

And in a flash, Mahiro was gone through the door. Keita did not worry for a second, knowing what he already must have been through to save him from the butcher's block. What would become of Tyazuke now that he could not perform the task the aliens assigned him? Would he be replaced? Now Keita found himself ashamedly wishing they could have secured the photos that were taken of them before everything turned sour. His waiting so close to the building gave him too much time to dwell on the happenings of the night. Mahiro was taking longer than he should be.

“I'm going to check on him,” Keita said. “The rest of you can go home now if you want.”

No one shifted. After a moment, the blue-haired one said “My home is your home. Mahiro let me stay over. I hope you don't mind. I'll sleep in his bed!”

“I guess we can work out rent-sharing arrangements later...”

Azuki interjected, “Genki and I will wait here for your brother. We can have fun together anywhere, later.”

He didn't like the sound of that. Haruka and Mikazuki stayed put, too, as did Michiro. Gulping in some air, Keita crossed the threshold of the dark doorway. “Mahiro!” he called after taking a few steps inside.

“Keita?” came Mahiro's distant voice in response. It was behind him. “I went out the front doors. I've got the key and... him.”

He backtracked quickly, fortunate that the door was still in view. Outside he saw, among the others, Mahiro, upon whose shoulder was leaning Tyazuke. The doctor looked more injured than they had left him. “I'm glad you took him out of there,” Keita said, running up to them; “but I don't see why you would.”

“He heard me and asked for my help,” said Mahiro. “I couldn't just leave him. And anyway, he'd done something.... When I was going through there I had seen no remnants of the rubber men but the deflated bodysuits they wore. I know he did it, but he hasn't told me how.”

Tyazuke cleared his throat. “Now that everyone is here, I will say. First of all, each one of the technicians was a piece of the Ambassador. I didn't know this till... well, I felt sure I was going to die, and I wanted to go down in the midst of ecstasy... so I unzipped, and approached the abominable thing with my eyes shut; with each step I grew more excited, more _erect_ , and then I put it in.” He didn't seem to feel it needed any further explanation; instead, he unzipped the crotch of his catsuit in front of everyone. No hint of a penis could be glimpsed in the shadowy hollow, but only a bubbled, scabrous scar.

He zipped up after one gasp and one incomplete exclamation. Keita wasn't sure if that was enough to have indicated all had seen, but it would be better if none had seen. In what the doctor had thought would be his final ecstasy of death, his last excited breaths, he had sacrificed a piece of himself to the alien Ambassador; and to its otherworldly biology, that had been a toxic piece.

The man had some of the same bubbled scar tissue on his hands, perhaps all of it being from some strange chemical effort of the creature to defend itself. The blue-haired one approached him steadily, took one of his hands, then kissed his lips. Breaking away, he said “We're completely even now. No hard feelings. None, I swear; but you ought to visit me in the near future. I live at Mahiro's house!” He proceeded to whisper the address of the block and the flat number.

“Enough of that,” said Mahiro. “Keita and I are going home. Someone should get this _doctor_ a doctor. His leg is broken.”

“I'll take him,” said Azuki. “Genki and I live together and can look after him fine whilst he heals. We'll enjoy his company.” Genki nodded enthusiastically. No one objected to this proposal, but Keita knew that couple of rapists would not be gentle with him.

It would probably get bright soon. Would the trains or buses be running from here to the vicinity of their danchi at this time? When Tyazuke was off his hands with some mumbled apologies, Mahiro started walking; blue-hair, whose name Keita still did not know, was at his heels, and Keita brought up the rear.

 

In another direction had walked Haruka and Mikazuki, shoulder to shoulder, with Michiro trying to keep up. Haruka couldn't come home to his parents dressed as he was, and he guessed Michiro was in a similar situation; but Mikazuki had led them to an old part of town, where he dwelt in an apartment above the bakery where he worked, promising they could spend the night and try on some plainer clothes of his.

Now they sat round a low table in his room, each with a large muffin before him. The sun had risen, and Haruka was exhausted, but still he nibbled his treat, fatty that he was; the pink latex outfit he'd won would be difficult to outgrow. Mikazuki put down his muffin after a couple of bites and rose to start rifling through his wardrobe. “I'm sure there's something you can wear over those on your journeys home,” he spoke, kneeling and pulling out a small trunk, which he opened. “Heh, no clothes in here, but I'll set it aside for later.”

The content of the trunk, Haruka noted with a sense of excited anticipation, was a jumbled collection of rubbery toys; plugs, dongs, gags, vibrators, and small round blobs with fuck-holes. Mikazuki picked three articles of clothing out of his wardrobe: a long stretchy skirt, a white blouse, and an ugly green tracksuit. “Who wears what?” he asked.

Standing, Haruka claimed immediately the skirt and blouse. “Sorry, Michiro; but my parents are used to me cross-dressing--just not in latex.

“Why do you think that mine aren't used to it?”

“You came to that place in shorts, didn't you?”

“I did,” Michiro conceded. “But I live apart from my parents anyway. I don't mind going home in the tracksuit, if you were worried about that.”

“But surely we don't have to throw these on and leave just yet, do we?” Haruka let his gaze hover over the open container, the treasure chest.

“Of course not,” answered Mikazuki, placing the garments neatly on the table. He then knelt over the trunk and dived his hands in. Two small white masses of rubber were extracted, and a veined purple behemoth of a dong, at least ten inches long by Haruka's reckoning. Already hard and spilling out of his maillot, Mikazuki stuck one of the rubber eggs on his glans, and began to stretch it. “It's good, you should try it.”

Quickly Michiro took and commenced to use the object's twin, leaving Haruka with the massive phallus. He picked the thing up, held it like a fisherman might hold a giant pike for a photo; it felt heavy; and though it was flexible, it wasn't exactly soft. It definitely wouldn't fit all the way inside him, but he had to try.... Pulling aside the bottom of his outfit, freeing his half-erect prick and clearing the way to his arsehole, he spat on his other hand and used this to lubricate his passage.

Setting the dong on the floor, trying to affix its suction cup base to the polished wood and succeeding, he moved his posterior into the appropriate position, and began to squat, holding the shaft just under the head in order to direct it. He shivered when it made contact with his sphincter, and cringed as he slowly admitted it inside. The others were facing him, pulling the toys repeatedly over their organs as they watched. When he got the head in, Mikazuki's cock quitted the egg, which Mikazuki then pressed upon the tip of Haruka's erection. The feeling of a soft envelopment combined with that of strong suction might have driven Haruka mad even if he hadn't been simultaneously impaled on the stiff slippery phallus.

He fucked himself on the dong, lifting his bum then lowering it to a certain point time after time, wishing he'd been close enough to the bed to hold onto it for fear lest he fall and really be impaled. Careful though he was, it would not be enough when his legs were weak from climax. Maybe, he thought, it would be better to take it all now, with slow deliberation, so that there'd be no dangerous shock to his innards later. But as he lowered farther, he found it difficult not to fall back; so instead, he leaned forward, soon finding himself on his knees with the insertion rapidly climbing his guts. It didn't hurt; he felt strange, and more excited than ever.

A cock suddenly prodded his forehead; he looked up, and it was Mikazuki's, looking for his mouth. Haruka hesitated only to lick his lips, then gobbled it up. As he did this, Mikazuki petted his head and played with his long brown hair. One of Haruka's hands, thrown over his back, held the dong inside him; the other stretched the small white sucking egg over his throbbing prick repeatedly; and in this position, all the while devouring Mikazuki's meat, Haruka soon blew his load, which ran over his hand and cock out the rim of the toy hole.

By that time, Michiro had seemed to tire of his toy; now he knelt behind Haruka, caressing his buttocks. Was he going to be satisfied with just that? Haruka would have asked, had not his gob still been stopped by Mikazuki. Suddenly he felt it running along the base of his spine: Michiro's cock, twitching and rigidified with an infusion of blood. He was trying to slip it in above the dong.

Disrespectfully, he let Mikazuki's length slip out his mouth. “Don't,” Haruka started to protest. “You'll rip me like that!” And he thought his prediction had come true the instant Michiro had slipped his thumb in, so much it stung; he was preparing the way for his cock. “It's too dry... please....”

“If you're going to behave in this manner,” said Mikazuki, “I'll put mine in your arse, too.”

Frightened at the prospect, Haruka brought his lips to that expectant shaft and resumed, kissing along it till he was able to engulf the glans. He felt something warm drivelling down the crevice of his buttocks; saliva, which Michiro must have been using as lube. Soon Michiro had begun again to try slipping his cock under Haruka's tight rim; and after an agonising couple of seconds during which Haruka's tears streamed--mostly from gagging on Mikazuki--he succeeded. He was in.

Never before had Haruka's arse been in so much pain. If he survived this, he thought, he'd be able to fit a fist in there afterwards. And as Michiro thrust, the dong crept farther inside Haruka. He couldn't feel it so deep in there; but running his palm over his abdomen, he could feel it. The bulge of the monstrous object stretched his belly most disturbingly. Mikazuki must have seen it by the time he came, flooding Haruka's throat with his thick sauce. After retracting his drivelling member, Mikazuki got on his knees so that his face was nearly level with Haruka's, and brought his hand to the bulge, playfully caressing its thin cover of latex and flesh.

Haruka swallowed, gasped. “Don't do that... it's dangerous, isn't it? What if something is ruptured?”

“If you don't move around too much, I think it will be fine.”

“You think?...”

Rather than elaborating on his unprofessional guess, Mikazuki knocked heads with Haruka and drove his tongue down his throat. The while, Michiro gripped Haruka's buttocks with talons, thrusting between them at full speed, stretching him alongside the dong so that his little arsehole would surely look like a gaping feminine aperture when they were finished. Getting on his elbows, Mikazuki proceeded to give Haruka's cock another taste, now that it had hardened since the egg-toy had fallen off.

Soon Mikazuki was taking it to the back of his throat. Ecstatic though he was, Haruka could not help worrying about the protrusion making a hill in his abdomen. He leaned forward over Mikazuki, thinking this would cause the object to retreat a little from his bowels; instead, its base popped off the floor. Now Michiro's ceaseless thrusts helped him to expel the massive dong inch by inch.

“Look what you've done!” complained Michiro. “Now I have to pick up the pace and come before you're too loose to enjoy.” Even as he said this, he doubled, tripled the frequency of his plunges into Haruka.

At the same time, Haruka started fucking Mikazuki's throat, gripping his head of luxuriant black hair with both hands. Sometimes muffled, other times gagged, cries of surprise, perhaps of protest, issued from that pretty throat as Haruka took much pleasure in stretching it. It was during this that Michiro injected his guts with a great volume of semen, and the spent organ slipped out simultaneously with the last of the dong. As he could feel his burning arsehole drivelling its meal down his perineum, balls and thighs, he fed Mikazuki with his own cream.

When he pulled out, Mikazuki gulped loudly, started to gasp, then coughed. He looked upset as he caught his breath, but brightened up and chuckled. “Haruka, you've ruined my toy.”

The dong, he meant; Haruka twisted to see that it was covered in faecal matter. “I'm sorry...”

“It's all right; I can soap it down in the toilet then boil it in a large pot for good measure, as usual.”

Haruka could not resist laughing. He thought he should call his mother to say he may not be home for some hours still, but realised that he must have misplaced his mobile somewhere in the changing room back at _that place_. “Mika-chan,” he said. “Have you lost your mobile, too?”

“Now that you mention it...”

“Exactly. We must have forgotten them when we changed. Will you be up for a return expedition tomorrow?”

“If you come with me. We ought to bring weapons just in case.... Inconspicuous weapons, like box cutters or sports equipment.”

It sounded like a plan. But now, Haruka was more worn out than ever. He crawled towards Mikazuki's bed, and wasn't sure whether he'd succeeded in heaving himself upon it by the time he was out.

 

He'd been stripped so that he now lay naked but for his thigh-high black boots on the couch. The scar was hideous and embarrassing and stung, but Azuki would not stop teasing it whilst the fingers of his other hand poked about inside his little bum. When Genki's member slid along his lips, Tyazuke took this as an order to open his mouth and accept it, which he did. After a moment, Azuki grabbed him under the knee and lifted the leg to make way for his cock. Tyazuke wanted to scream from the pain, but when he felt Azuki's meat pushing its way inside him, a pleasing chill travelled up his spine and warmed his skull; it had been so long since he was penetrated.

The two held him like a spit-roast over the couch and fucked away. His shattered knee had not even been seen by a doctor yet; he felt like a broken doll, which feeling he took a strange comfort in as the pretty devils he'd tried to lure to a grim fate used him. Soon he was sucking Genki of his own accord, thinking it would have been a shame indeed if he had finished his alien assignment. If he hadn't been such a failure, he'd never have experienced the bliss he found himself deriving from being porked in both ends. And though he did sorely regret the loss of his own tool, he knew that he deserved it more than most things that happened to him.

It was not long before Genki came in his mouth, and he drank the bitter slime readily, holding onto Genki with his lips till he thought he'd gotten every last drop. “Look at that scum-sucking pervert,” Azuki teased; and, deepening his thrusts, “we can supply him with all the sperm he could ever want, and hopefully then some.”

As if seeking to prove that statement, Genki stood by and watched, stroking his flaccid member lovingly with one hand, using the other to play with his own arsehole; he'd have more ready in no time. Groaning, Azuki came as well, flooding Tyazuke's rectum, wherein he stayed buried till he'd become too small to remain inside.

“Kind of boring without a penis to play with, isn't he?” said Azuki. “He's only good for one thing now.” Azuki straightened up and went behind the couch, out of Tyazuke's sight. A few seconds later he returned bearing gifts: a bundle of objects colourful as they were insertable. He knelt before the couch by Tyazuke's legs and removed one object, a vibrating pink length of fused plastic beads, from out the bundle; this he drove into Tyazuke's arsehole whilst Genki lifted the injured leg out of the way.

Tyazuke moaned when he felt the object hit his sweet spot inside; Azuki swivelled it about, perhaps trying to cause discomfort but it only sent waves of pleasure through him. He removed his hand from the base of the object, leaving it vibrating inside Tyazuke, only to take another off the armful he carried and guide it to the same destination. “Let's see how many you can fit,” Azuki said. Then Genki's reëngorged cock lay across Tyazuke's panting mouth.

 

Unwavering had been Keita's progress from doorway to bathroom. They all needed a shower, after a night like last, but Mahiro was intent on sleeping first. As he did on most other nights--though it was presently three hours till noon--he came into his and Keita's bedroom, found his bed, lay upon it, and closed his eyes. Unlike on most other nights, there was Sanousuke, looking down on him from a few paces away; saying “You can't sleep yet. After how I helped you rescue your brother, you owe me a favour.”

Had they modified San's body in some way so that he never needed rest now? Mahiro wondered hazily, yet unimpeded in his descent of the seven-hundred steps to the gates of slumber. He had rolled over, showing San his back; and the next instant, San was in bed with him, breathing on the back of his head, touching his slight paunch that only ever manifested when he lay on his side, and giggling.

Aroused to full wakefulness, Mahiro turned and tried to push him off; but San met him with a kiss on the lips and an arm constricting his waist, pulling them together. Mahiro got his hand between their faces and pushed San's head away, causing San to loosen his grip. “If you don't get out of my bed, I'm kicking you out of my home! I don't owe you anything!” cried Mahiro.

“You know that's a lie! You owe me everything, since I helped you save Keita... is he the reason why you resist?”

“What are you talking about? Get out--”

“You prefer your brother to me! That's incest... you'd rather fuck him...”

Mahiro burst out laughing. “That's... preposterous. You're crazy.”

Saying nothing, San tightly grasped the centre of Mahiro's t-shirt, twisting it. Suddenly afraid, Mahiro searched his eyes for intent, and saw only hurt. “You...” Mahiro started, feeling his face flush--a self-replicating phenomenon for him. “You want me to fuck you?”

“It's all I've wanted since I first saw you.”

“But I've never even been with a girl before,” Mahiro said too readily. “And... Keita's here.”

“What does it matter? You're both adults, and if he wants to join us...”

“Don't say disgusting things.”

“You're boys,” said San, “so how is it disgusting? No deformed children could possibly result. If it makes you feel better, let's do it under the duvet.” He rolled off the bed and lifted said cover, slipping his legs under it as he got back on; and thus he waited, his back turned towards Mahiro. “You know where it goes?” he added after a couple seconds.

At that moment Mahiro was not quite sure he _did_ know. Nor was he sure why he had gone along thus far; getting out of bed, lifting his side of the duvet, and staring at San's shadowed bum--the skirt had gathered at his waist in the process of slipping under the cover. But he knew that he was hard; he _wanted_ to pay his debt to San in this way, if it was to be paid at all. The urgency of doing something, and of having this something concealed before Keita came out of the shower, had a mild coercive effect on Mahiro: he climbed into bed.

Immediately San had reached behind himself and begun stroking Mahiro's erection through the fabric of his trousers; then he unbuttoned and unzipped the trousers. “No underwear?” he asked, giggling as he pulled the snake from its nest. His grip was gentle and beckoning. Mahiro placed a hand on his nude hip and brought it closer; soon his rude appendage was nuzzling in the dark between those pale buttocks. He shuddered when he felt the entrance. “Put it in,” San urged. “I don't care if it hurts.”

Though there was nothing to lubricate the passage, the puckered hole seemed to suck him in as he pressed. It felt indescribably _good,_ and a bit strange, but it took little time for Mahiro to begin his slow thrusts. He moaned despite himself; San was silent, but for the sound of breathing through his mouth.

“You aren't sleeping, are you?” said Keita. Startled, Mahiro twisted his head with searching eyes and found Keita standing at the foot of the bed, watching them; he had put his yellow latex stuff back on after his shower.

“I was until you woke me,” Mahiro lied. “Now let me get back to sleep.” His thrusts went on mechanically under the cover; then he realised that the distinct motions could be hinted by the moving shapes in the duvet, and stopped, hoping Keita had not seen, and that if he had, it hadn't registered.

“I'm not naïve just because I'm a few minutes younger!” Keita suddenly gathered the duvet at the foot of the bed, exposing them.

Speechless, Mahiro's face burned; it must have looked as red as it felt. Why wasn't he going limp?

“Why don't you join us?” enquired San, thrusting his hips back to compensate for Mahiro's present inaction.

“H-he,” Mahiro started to tell another fib--that San was joking; but even had it been true, he wouldn't have been able to form a sentence of it, embarrassed as he was.

“Why not?” said Keita, walking over to San's side of the bed. “Last night was weird as things could possibly get; having a three-way with my brother the morning after feels oddly natural.” His cock was already hard, Mahiro saw as it was pulled out the side of the maillot and held above San's head. It was also bigger than Mahiro's--unfair! he thought, for he was older and somewhat bigger in other ways.

Sanousuke propped himself up on his elbow and engulfed the organ with his lips. When he reached back to smack Mahiro's hip, the latter took it as a signal to resume fucking; and he got back to it quickly, the situation seeming less to inspire panic as Keita steered it. The impression came to Mahiro that his girlish brother had quite preceded him in the loss of that male social burden known as virginity. It momentarily frightened him, till the delightful sensation of moving to and fro inside San reconquered his consciousness.

It was doubly arousing to watch that head, dressed as it was in voluminous silky strands of blue hair, manoeuvring sensually upon and about the massive fleshy staff of Keita, who stood there in his otherworldly yellow-with-black-trimmings costume of latex--something of whose sort Mahiro might have liked to wear at that moment, had his body been a little less hairy. He was close to coming.

“That should be enough,” said Keita abruptly. “What's your name?”

The glistening organ withdrawn from his mouth, he gasped for air and said “Sanousuke.”

Had Keita climaxed? Mahiro hadn't heard San swallow anything, and the penis did not look spent in the least, so he wondered; but not for long. Keita went around the foot of the bed, coming up to Mahiro's back: he lifted the duvet.

“You can't do that!”

“I'm doing it,” Keita chuckled darkly. He got under the cover, sandwiching Mahiro between himself and San; sandwiching his hot meat between Mahiro's buttocks soon as he'd pulled the trousers down far enough.

“But we're siblings! It's immoral!... What would mother think?!”

“Who knows? If she were alive, she might be just the sort of fujoshi whose heart would be warmed by this!” The member, slicked as it was by saliva, glided to and fro along Mahiro's crevice, which was itself slick with sweat.

“How could you insult mother like that?... Ah!” It had gained entry with startling ease, and began to move like a piston in Mahiro's passage. Now all the effort of fucking San was put in by Keita, as Mahiro's hips could hardly move of his own will in this position.

Mahiro climaxed quickly, despite his protests; a torrent of spend gushed forth into San's rectum. He merely held onto San, panting, as his brother went on fucking him. It was beyond imagining, that his dear little brother would have turned out such an amoral incestuous hussy--and after all he'd done for him! He supposed this made his brother a rapist, as well; but as Mahiro grew accustomed to the rhythm and weight of Keita's cock inside him, he felt so much less _violated_ than _in violation_ \--of what, he could not fathom; but he remembered having done so when it began, and was sure he would at the end.

The organ punched a sweet spot and made him spend again, even though he was half limp and slipping out of San. Shortly thereafter, Keita spent, flooding his bowels. Mahiro cried, and it was a cry more of pleasure than of anything else.

When Mahiro had fully retreated from his passage, San turned and gave his gasping mouth a warm, wet kiss; then said “It wasn't so bad, was it? Let's do something like this every day.”

Mahiro had nothing to say to that. He wanted to be buried, hidden away from all eyes; but for the moment, the urge to sleep was stronger, and he would have succumbed to it had not Keita's cock still been in his arse. “Get out of me,” he groaned.

Keita retrieved himself with deliberate slowness. “Later,” he promised, “you're shaving and trying on my clothes.”

 

END


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